We already posted your daily link to Dave McKenna's "Cranky Redskins Fan's Guide to Dan Snyder," but here it is again for good measure. We'll post this mother until Dan Snyder's dumbass libel suit is nailed to a cross while dogs gnaw off its toes. (For those of you keeping track, this is "We Are All Dave McKenna CL.")

Today: the fifth installment of "The Snydering," our satirical, non-libelous Dan Snyder serial group fiction. For more about "The Snydering" and how to play, please read this explanation.

As the raft drifted away from the banks of the Potomac, I looked back at Dan Snyder's mansion, clearly visible over the ragged stumps of protected trees he'd hacked down to clear a view of the river. I'd been told that in the quiet of the morning Snyder would sit in a windowed aerie — a watchtower of sorts — and take his breakfast while gazing upon the rushing waters below. He ate only the finest brand of macrobiotic granola, although occasionally he would filch a sausage from the 24-hour buffet his minions prepared for his wife. When no one was looking, Snyder would devour the meat with abandon, grease slicking his chin. His eyes would narrow as he studied the rapids below, his tiny brain turning over like a Fiat engine on a frigid day.

What madness filled his thoughts in these moments? I had to know. I had come to Snyder's party to see the Redskins owner in his element, to understand the nature of his insanity. Yes, he'd tried to have me killed in his fighting pit as soon as I'd arrived. And, yes, his menagerie of freaks was horrifying, a motley and lecherous crew of shankers and genetic anomalies. But I'd taken this assignment for a reason. If I fled now, Snyder would certainly win.

Besides, the Bligle had started acting weird. He was perched on the far side of the raft muttering into his chest feathers. A beast as fierce and violent as this was not the ideal traveling companion. The Bligle had been subjected to the worst kind of abuse in Snyder's dungeons and could snap at any moment. There is nothing more dangerous than a laboratory mutant coming to terms with his freedom. I knew from experience that a powerful rage would soon fill him with a brute strength. When that happened, he would be impossible to control.

"I'm sorry, Bligle," I said. "You saved me from death. But I am a professional and I have a job to do."

With that, I dove into the Potomac and made my way for shore. But the Bligle did not understand, and I felt a pang of guilt as he squawked dolefully behind me. My mission, however, was paramount. I clambered ashore and unzipped the secret pouch in which I stored my rubber pig snout and silly wig. I put them on and completed the disguise with handfuls of leaves and river mud. Then I turned toward the River Bend estate, more determined than ever to find the truth about Snyder.